


Recovery

by I_llbedammned



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Churches & Cathedrals, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2020-09-02 08:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_llbedammned/pseuds/I_llbedammned
Summary: After the church scene in WWII, Aziraphale stops by to help Crowley recover from his wounds.





	1. Crowley's Perspective

It was a stupid thing to do, Crowley ruminated as he limped his way back to his apartment. It was a very stupid thing to do for someone who didn’t even deserve it. For an angel who told him he didn’t want to see him again because he wanted some holy water in case the forces of Hell came knocking at his door. For a stupid angel who looked at him like he was the second coming and whose face when he smiled lit up like the sun. The only angel to look at him with kindness since The Fall. That sweet angel…

Damn it.

It was still a stupid decision, even if he couldn’t convince himself that it was a regrettable one.

His feet ached worse than they had in ages, like he was still walking on broken glass even though he was long since out of the church. As he drove down the streets in his Bentley he was quite sure that he would be feeling the effects of this little bit of heroism for weeks to come. Wounds made by consecrated items and places didn’t heal the way that the typical damages did, a final spiteful spit in the face by the Heavens he supposed. As if they didn’t suffer enough when they fell.

By the time he reached his apartment, he was quite sure that there was blood pooling at the bottom of his shoes. He clambered out of the car practically dragging his feet along the pavement and feeling his socks squish unpleasantly. He wished there was a working lift but with the way power worked thanks to the war it rarely worked. With a snap of his fingers he used a bit of a demonic miracle to send power to it and take him up to his flat. Now was not the time he was going to trifle with stairs, not with how tired he felt after the church incident. 

The hallway to his apartment never felt so long. The green wallpaper seemed to be mocking him as he passed it. As he struggled with the key in the door he mumbled under his breath that all of God’s creations seemed to be mocking him. Though he was damn sure that Hell was not watching him at this moment, but sometimes he still cursed existence simply out of gut reflex. What was taking this door so long? Was the lock jammed again? Was he the one responsible for doors jamming when you needed them to open the fastest or was that another minor demon?

The demon practically melted into the soft black carpet on his floor as the door swung open. With flair he flung himself onto the couch and lay for a few moments on his chest, burying his face in the pillows. It was so good to be home. Rolling over onto his back, he pulled his long legs to his chest and pried off his shoes. 

Satan’s balls, that was even worse than he expected. There were thick layers of blisters, many of which had popped and spilled dark black blood all over his feet. Oh this was going to take a damned eternity to heal up. The stupid angel better appreciate the books that were saved.

“Oh dear, that looks even worse than I thought it would.” Came a soft voice from his doorway and a thrill of fear went through Crowley as he froze with one leg curled to his chest and the other dangling with a shoe still on at the end of the couch.

“Aziraphale!” the demon cried sitting up and trying to sling one arm casually over the back of his couch, as if the angel could not see his wounded foot from the front door, “What are you doing here?”  
“I, well,” Aziraphale looked away, with the pretense of looking at Crowley’s unique décor, “I happened to be in the area and I wanted to check in on you after the whole ruckus at the church. “ He moved and sat down on the large black leather chair, next to the couch, not quite touching the demon, but letting his eyes drift down to rest on the exposed foot. His eyes welled up with tears and for a moment Crowley wanted to kick him out. He was a demon who chose to walk in a church, he didn’t need anybody’s sympathy for that. He knew what he was doing when he made that choice and now he had to suffer for it.

“Well no need to check up on me, I’m fine.” With a flick of his wrist he tugged a blanket down over his foot, sitting up with his legs splayed. His foot screamed in protest of anything touching it, making him hiss loudly despite his best efforts. A grimace was on his face afterwards.

“You most certainly are not fine.” Aziraphale got to his feet, sounding indignant and pointing at the stain on his grey shirt. Honestly, Crowley had no idea why he was suddenly so irritated. It wasn’t like they ever exactly were honest with how they were feeling or their wounds, “I can see the blood!”

“Oh that,” Crowley gave a shrug, “Blood’s in fashion now. War and all that.” He flicked his fingers and a glass of red wine appeared in his hands. Wine wasn’t the best, but a little alcohol helped with pain. At least if he was drunk he would forget about it. He took a long sip, looking over Aziraphale’s head to avoid meeting those tender eyes.  
“Let me see the wounds, I can help.” The angel’s voice softened.

“No, you don’t need to. I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” Crowley growled. Between The Fall and living in actual Hell for quite a while before he convinced the others to let him play around the Garden of Eden and Earth, it wasn’t an exaggeration. If he thought about it like that, then the pain was easier to deal with.

“You are exasperating. Listen,” The angel knelt down by Crowley’s feet and gently tugged the blanket off, making him hiss. All the same, he didn’t move his feet away. Part of him wanted his friend to see the wounds he had gotten, wanted sympathy and understanding that he knew he would never get in Hell. “You got these wounds helping me. At least I can help make them better as payment.”  
“Payment?” You don’t owe me payment for anything!” Anger tinged the demon’s voice. Just like an angel to assume that everything a demon did always came with a price tag. Maybe he was just trying to do a nice thing for once!

“Then as a favor to you then.” Aziraphale had the remaining shoe in his hand, but his silvery eyes looked at Crowley waiting for a nod or something before he continued. How polite of him.  
Despite the pain a smirk crossed Crowley’s face, “Oh? An angel would owe a demon a favor?”

“One angel, specifically me, would owe one demon, specifically you, a favor. Yes.” The angel looked like he was going to be sick to his stomach which made the other laugh a low, deep chortle. Oh the things he could ask for were he a bit more inclined to be devious.

“Right. Get on with it then.” The expression on the demon’s face was sour, but he nodded and kept his eyes right on the angel as he undid the laces on his black leather shoes and gently removed it.  
“Oh dear.” Soft fingers brushed against his wounds and it stung, despite all the efforts to be gentle. Socks were peeled off and thrown in a bloody heap on the ground. “You really burned yourself badly.” Tears welled up in the angel’s eyes, “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve these. Not for-“ With a watery grin, Aziraphale broke off.

A non-committal grunt was all Crowley could manage. He was glad for the glasses covering his eyes. Despite his desire for sympathy there was almost something heartbreaking in getting it. It was like all the raw wounds in his heart were being exposed. Yes it was worth it, for him and all of his silly books. He’d do it again and again until his feet poured blood if given the chance.

“Be back in a tick.” A whirl of white and Aziraphale was gone. In the kitchen, Crowley heard the running of water and several drawers being opened. Closing his eyes Crowley drained the rest of his glass of wine, taking strength from the mild burn of the alcohol. With another flick of his fingers he refilled the glass and began drinking once more.

Humming, Aziraphale came back with some herbal smelling soap and clean bandages. Getting down to business, he took off his jacket and hat, laying them across the leather chair he had formerly been sitting on. Knowing exactly how painful this was going to be, he rolled up his sleeves and buttoned them into place. Damn, the angel looked so good when he was in business mode. 

Once more Aziraphale knelt down on one knee. Taking one foot, he began to clean it with reverence, slowly and gently. Black blood poured into the tub of water and Crowley bit his lips to keep from crying out. Casting a glance up at him, never breaking his pattern of cleaning, Aziraphale said tenderly, “It’s alright if you need to cry out, my dear. I won’t judge you. What you are going through is tremendous. I can’t imagine how much it must hurt.”

With a grin Crowley shoved aside his pain and bluffed through gritted teeth, “No. This is fine. Feels like puppies.”

A soft murmured laugh came from Aziraphale, but he didn’t argue with Crowley’s perceptions of the world. Bless him, erm curse him? Whichever was the good one that wouldn’t burn him. He just continued cleaning.

Once the blood was clean, a cool salve was put on the wounds. Somehow it took the pain away and it smelled heavenly. “What’s that, angel?” Crowley picked up his head and put down his wine glass on the ground next to him, finishing up the second glass with a long draught.

“Family recipe,” Aziraphale responded, not bothering to elaborate. Heaven blessed medicine? My, he sure was taking a chance bringing that in here. There’d be Hell to pay if he got caught. There was a soft degree of honor, something soft and warm that was poured into his chest when Crowley realized that. This was far more than a misguided sense of pity and it wasn’t just anyone you brought out the heaven-blessed medicine for. 

Resting an elbow on his knee, Crowley watched and let a genuine smile inch across his face as the angel worked without looking up. Aziraphale was focused upon the work he was doing, the soft lines of his face made more dream-like in the shadows of the apartment. His soft hands spread the pale blue unguent and wrapped the clean bandages around the wounds. The silvery-blonde hair of his hair made him positively luminous. Crowley watched the way his arms worked, the way that the muscles seemed to effortlessly work beneath the skin and noting how the layers of softness didn’t make the grip any less strong. He sat there admiring the way that the sweat gently beaded on the angel’s forehead and made some stray locks of hair stick in place when Aziraphale looked up.

Rather than looking away, Crowley sat there for a few moments and let their eyes linger upon each other. Electric sparks raced between them and for a moment Crowley wanted to cross the line that the Heavenly Forces had drawn in the sand ages before either of them were born. To let their lips meet and see where that led them. Understanding passed between them and Aziraphale’s smile lit up the whole room before a small, sad look entered into his gaze.

“Good night, my dear.” The angel knelt low and placed a soft kiss above each ankle before rising. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you some time soon.”

On impulse Crowley blurted, “You don’t have to leave, you know. I could get wine and-“

Aziraphale shook his head, responding with the utmost patience “Another time. There’s a war and I have to go put away my books. But I will see you again. I assure you.”

As he left, the ghost of his lips and of the way his hands held his poor wounded feet danced across Crowley’s memory. The grin never left his lips. It was good to have his dear friend back.


	2. Aziraphale's Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The parallel, this is the exploration of Aziraphale's mindset after the church incident

It was a foolish notion that compelled Aziraphale the streets at night. He should just go back to his bookshop and have a calming cuppa, reflect upon what just happened by reading a lovely story –perhaps Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Stories as he had just gotten a first edition copy of that. He should make sure all the books were perfectly intact- though he strangely did not doubt Crowley’s assertion that they were. He just wouldn’t lie about something so important. Yes, that would be the wisest choice, surely a choice that would smiled upon by all the angels in Heaven and God herself. Yet, being a flawed servant of perfection he didn’t do any of that. Instead he found himself in the war torn streets, staring at the frightened faces of all the mortals who had just seen him crawl out from the fiery wreckage left behind by the attempted Nazi assassination.

The knowledge that he had almost been so easily discorporated shook him. It wasn’t that a body was exactly hard to get, papers and all that were not impossible to do even if they were tedious. But this body was special. This body was the one he had spent so many thousands of years on this plane with, the body that Crowley recognized as being his and that he had lovingly grow and stretched into a pleasantly soft shape. The new form they would give him – well it wouldn’t be him. It would be like how he was guarding Eden, all tall and muscular with nary a comforting bit of fat on him. No doubt he would be built like a soldier despite his desire to have a bit of cushioning. Even though Gabriel shamed him about it, he liked it because it was his own and Crowley had once said that the belly suited him so…

There he was thinking about that blasted demon again. He had not the foggiest clue of why he continually came back to that tempter. Up until a few moments ago he was sure that the demon hated him, he certainly hadn’t made any attempt to contact him after the holy water incident and no doubt was gallivanting around causing all sorts of trouble. Not that, Aziraphale admitted to himself, he had not cause a small amount of trouble himself in those years. One simply had to cause some or else it got terribly boring on this plane. Then even after barely talking to him and saving his life and his books he just danced off. That devilish red-head had just danced off with barely a “bye” or an explanation! It was infuriating. Not that the angel even cared about such things from his mortal enemy, but it was more the principal of it!

Despite his small annoyance, he found his heart softening. Why would he do such a thing, the poor soul? Why would someone who had avoided him for hundreds of years now come back just to save him and his books? Aziraphale knew that just walking past the fonts of holy water was dangerous enough for a demon let alone treading upon hallowed ground. The poor dear was probably feeling it a bit after that show of heroism.

That show of heroism that he had made for the angel’s sake and no one else’s.

It was probably nothing, probably just in his mind. The bastard was probably laughing it up back at his flat. All the same, Aziraphale felt like he should check up on him. You know, just to make sure everything was alright. Surely, Heaven could see no harm in simply a show of compassion even towards the damned.

So, after dropping his book bag off at the shop, he made his way towards the flat that he knew the dreaded demon Crowley was making residence in. The building loomed like a gargoyle over the city, flashing in the travelling storm clouds. As he entered into the lobby, the angel’s silver eyes caught upon a bit of wetness glimmering in the lamp light and he bent down to get a better look. Sweet sanguine savior! That was blood! Not just any blood either, judging by how thick and black it was. That was demon’s blood, no doubt in his mind! 

Crowley! Despite his better instincts his heart pinged with a deep seated desire to run up the stairs, knock in the door, and run to him. Tell him he was an idiot for putting himself at risk like that all for an angel who didn’t even like him and who he was sworn to defeat! It had to have cut very deep to make that much blood, enough to leak through the wooden sole of the shoe. They probably ached something terrible and pained him a good deal.

With urgency, Aziraphale took off up the stone steps because Heaven knew that the lift never worked properly around here, using his wings to boost him up a few steps at a time when he was sure that the mortals weren’t looking out on the landing. What if he was desperately wounded? What if holy made wounds never fully stopped bleeding on a demon?

As he reached the hallway the angel slowed down his pace. It wouldn’t do to seem like he _wanted_ to be there or that he was in a rush. There was a storm coming and Aziraphale was just passing through and noted that there was a shelter here. Pure coincidence lead him up the steps and to this apartment, not design. Certainly not a concern. He straightened his jacket and tie, trying his best to make himself look presentable as he made his way down the green papered hallway.

The black door was slightly ajar as he approached and gently Aziraphale extended his hand to push it open fully. Any thoughts of trying to seem proper vanished promptly out of his mind upon seeing the fully extent of the damages laid out before him, damages that would not exist if it weren’t for his own foolhardy plan and lack of perception about mortal motivations.  
“Oh dear, that looks even worse than I thought it would,” the words practically tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

With an inward wince he noticed the way that Crowley’s muscles all tensed upon hearing his voice. Even after all these years, it still was like being plunged into cold water just to hear his voice unexpectedly – he noted with a touch of sadness. Despite the circumstances, the angel wished for it to be a truly happy greeting.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried sitting up and trying to sling one arm casually over the back of his couch, as if the smell of blood wouldn’t have been enough to alert him that something was wrong. “What are you doing here?”

“I, well,” Aziraphale looked away, unable to bear the terrible guilt that he felt upon seeing the wounds that only existed because of him and this damned ineffable war that he was forced to take part in, “I happened to be in the area and I wanted to check in on you after the whole ruckus at the church. “ 

It was far more honest than he wanted to be, but then again when talking to Crowley he was always far more honest than he wanted to be. No matter how much planning he did, how much he coached himself on the stories he would tell this demon somehow when he saw the angular face with the jaw made tight by pain the truth just flowed out. Cautiously he took a seat upon the leather chair next to the wounded demon, remembering that the last time he saw so much demonic blood there was a great and terrible fall from grace. The smell of blood still haunted his dreams some nights as well as the screams. Honestly he was surprised that Crawley wasn’t screaming now. Instinctively his eyes began to well up with guilt-ridden tears and the angel tried his best to cover them up with a motion like he was scratching his face. 

“Well no need to check up on me, I’m fine.” The words came out cold, but you didn’t spend so many centuries near a being to not be able to tell when they were lying. The avoidance, the casual cold tone of his voice, everything about the demon was dismissive right when things were the worst. The hiss only confirmed that which he already knew to be true, that which he could see in the dark red ebb of pain in a corona radiata around him in the type of sight that only angels of a certain circle could have when they focused.

“You most certainly are not fine.” Aziraphale got to his feet, sounding indignant and pointing at the stain on the demon’s grey shirt, unmistakably dark. It wasn’t like he could gesture to an aura, but stains were physical enough that even a half-blind demon could see it. “I can see the blood!”

“Oh that,” Crowley gave a shrug, “Blood’s in fashion now. War and all that.”

The flippant way that he took a drink from a mysterious wine glass just added to the message. He didn’t need help, from Aziraphale or anybody. Heaven forbid that he be allowed to feel the touch of someone who wanted nothing more than to take away his pain.

Well, Heaven might forbid it but what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“Let me see the wounds, I can help.” It wasn’t a request, not really. The angel was going to help him. There was no rightness in a world that would let someone suffer so dearly for another without respite. No one deserved such pain, especially not Crowley who had gotten it taking out Nazis and saving knowledge and a life. Saving Aziraphale’s knowledge and life specifically.

“No, you don’t need to. I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” The casual tone was almost enough to make Aziraphale scream “I can see in your damn aura that you are certainly not fine, you old menace” which of course he didn’t because a proper angel would never do such a thing but the impulse was still there because he was an imperfect angel.

Making his voice gentle he knelt down, supplication in his silver eyes, “You are exasperating. Listen,” The angel knelt down by Crowley’s feet and gently tugged the blanket off, making him hiss. But his feet stayed where they were. They didn’t shift into another form, they weren’t illusioned away to look healthy all of a sudden. That was a degree of trust, the knowledge that he wouldn’t be smote immediately. Progress. “You got these wounds helping me. At least I can help make them better as payment.” 

Payment was a system a demon could understand, or at least he assumed that they would. Instead he exploded like a tinder keg being lit up, “Payment?” You don’t owe me payment for anything!” Bright lines of anger lanced through the aura, making Aziraphale’s eyes sting with their intensity. 

Instead of looking away, he maintained eye contact lest it be seen as a lack of trust on his part. “Then as a favor to you then.” That was surely the problem, the fact that Aziraphale would have the upper hand in the scales. Leave it to a demon to always be conscious of who had the upper hand, at least that is the speeches they always gave in Heaven about what demons wanted. Truthfully Aziraphale just wanted to give him an out that wouldn’t disgrace him in front of either of their superiors.

“Oh? An angel would owe a demon a favor?” There it was, the smirk that said that everything was okay between them again and that nothing had changed in the centuries of absence. A palpable feeling of relief flooded through Aziraphale despite the circumstances as he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

But what if Gabriel found out he was showing such kindness towards Crowley. The lining of Aziraphale’s stomach tried to turn itself inside out at the thought of the flames of Heaven trying to burn him alive. “One angel, specifically me, would owe one demon, specifically you, a favor. Yes.” 

“Right. Get on with it then.” He barked, which was as kind of a permission as a demon could give.

Using the kindest touch he could, Aziraphale practically peeled the remaining shoe of his companion’s foot. Bits of blood and burst blisters, tendons sticking through the bottom of the soles of his foot – it was all far more messy and grotesque than he had first assumed it would be. It was a bit of a surprise the shoes held it in as well as they did.

”Oh dear,” he mumumured, mostly to himself. Any thought of keeping his suit pristine and white vanished as Aziraphale tried to draw off bits of pain, but there was too much for a simple touch and Heaven would not allow wounds to be made by consecrated ground to be healed with a miracle. “You really burned yourself badly.” Tears welled up in the angel’s eyes, as he thought of how many years he had gone hating the poor creature who had just put himself through so much pain for his sake “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve these. Not for-“ With a watery grin, Aziraphale broke off. No, no sense in making all the pain worse by projecting his own guilt onto Crowley. That was the last thing the demon needed at the moment.

It wouldn’t do to let such a selfless act go punished. “Be back in a tick.” He assured his hellish companion, trying not to let his gaze linger upon the look of pain etched in every line on the face. Frustrated, he turned off the aura gaze lest it become a distraction.

Heaven had said no miracles, but they didn’t expressly forbid him from making a salve that could take away any pain. In fact they had ruled neither positively or negatively about any alchemical processes.

How convenient.

Drawers were opened, but of course Crowley had next to nothing kept in there that was useful. It wasn’t like he actually used the kitchen in his apartment after all, it was mostly there for show. At least he had the good sense to keep the fridge stocked, even though Aziraphale knew that he didn’t actually consume the food kept there. Some herbs there, some water inscribed with sigils that had been lost three hundred years ago to most men, boil the freshly grown herbs with some fat and speed up time just a touch so that everything could be done quickly. It was a risky move, speeding everything up, and certainly not something that could be done on a large scale but getting the soap to cool was at least a simple, untraceable task.

Bandages came out of the bathroom, kept there for Heaven only knew what foul purpose, and the whole pot of water was brought over as well just for sanitation, with a charm on it so that it would refresh itself without him having to get up and change it.

Thinking of nothing else but wanting to heal the wounds, Aziraphale cast aside the hat and jacket and got to work. Healing was a delicate art, one that needed time and patience of which he had plenty to spare. If anything was done improperly the foot might heal crooked or stay bubbled forever, both of which were intolerable to think of. 

It wasn’t til he heard smothered whimpers of pain that it occurred to him that the whole process might still hurt even given the precautions. “It’s alright if you need to cry out, my dear. I won’t judge you. What you are going through is tremendous. I can’t imagine how much it must hurt.” Permission. Sometimes that’s what he thought either of them needed just to break through this awful shell both of them had around each other. Permission to be themselves, unabashedly.

“No. This is fine. Feels like puppies.” Another bluffed lie, but an allowable one. Sometimes a being in pain, even an immortal being such as Crowley, didn’t need their entire worldview stripped away all at once. Sometimes a mask allowed them to be able to be vulnerable even around someone who was supposed to be their mortal enemy.

Heaven protect him and his silly mask of being strong. Aziraphale would take care of the rest.

With a slow, methodical hand the wounds were cleaned ‘til the water ran clear and the flesh was already beginning to reform thanks to the alchemy ingrained within the soap. Bandages were placed over it so that there would be no visible proof of what he had done. When Crowley saw that he was more healed than he should be in the morning it would just be another one of Heaven’s silly little miracles come to roost.

His gaze travelled upwards after the work was done, a tired but satisfied smile upon his face. There he saw Crowley gazing back at him. The angular face seemed placid and a crooked smile danced across his face as he rested one hand on his cheek and the other splayed across the back of the couch. His shirt hung open with a few buttons undone that made him look rakish even despite the full suit and for a brief moment Aziraphale wondered what he would look like with the shirt all the way undone. Why in this light he looked positively enchanting, calm and strong. In this moment Aziraphale saw the mercy in the angel that Crowley used to be.

Neither looked away and for a second it almost seemed like permission. Like he was being the go ahead to make a move, to run his hands through that red hair and place a gentle kiss upon that brown that would show the demon that all had been forgiven and that he could stop suffering because his guardian angel was finally here. To hold him close and let that frail body for once be able to relax rather than constantly be on patrol for the next threat or person to tempt, to be able to collapse and ramble about life, the universe and everything to someone who could actually understand him. The only other immortal being who had been on this rock as long as he had been.

But no. Heaven would not allow such a thing. Sadness tinged his eyes as he remembered how much was at stake and how Gabriel would flay him alive for even such kindness as he already had given.  
With an effort, Aziraphale looked away from the golden fire burning within Crowley’s eyes. “Good night, my dear.” One last gesture of kindness, a soft kiss above each ankle was all he would allow himself. A selfish gesture of a world and an affection that should not be, but one he had no regrets about acting upon nonetheless. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you some time soon.”  
“You don’t have to leave, you know. I could get wine and-“ Rushed words and desperation to cling towards a bit of kindness. It broke his heart to leave, but if he stayed Aziraphale knew he would do something stupid and lovely.

“Another time. There’s a war and I have to go put away my books. But I will see you again. I assure you.” Maybe next time he would bring some wine. Crowley seemed to like wine and it wasn’t like either of them couldn’t get drunk without being able to reverse it. People had cordial drinks with mortal enemies all the time, right?

But it wasn’t thoughts of war that he carried with him through the lightly raining streets of London. It was the look of utter peace and fulfillment upon Crowley’s face that shone like a beacon upon him. Trust and vulnerability, something that was rarely seen in anyone’s face. It was like a weight he had been carrying for centuries learning the gavotte was suddenly lifted and forgiveness was right in front of him.

It was hope. Hope for something more, something brighter.


End file.
